It's a Gamble
by oreocheesecakes
Summary: Snippets from the series in Maxon's point of view. Sort of like a continuation of The Prince. Enjoy! :D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Maxon's my favorite character in the book, and I really enjoyed The Prince. This scene is my doing, but the rest of the chapters will mostly be "deleted scenes" or significant scenes in Maxon's POV. They'll also be longer than this.**

**This happens after America and Maxon's first meeting.**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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**PROLOGUE**

_"You're too stupid to see love when it stands right in front of you."_

I can't even count how many times Daphne's words have echoed in my head. But I couldn't stop thinking about them—they cut right to the core of my greatest fears about the Selection.

_"You'll find a wife because you have to . . ."_

I ran a hand through my hair, growling in frustration. _Of course I have to, _I thought helplessly, and the words sounded pathetic even in my head. I needed to find a wife, and it was tradition that a prince of Illea marry a commoner in order to appease the people. But more than that, the Selection was my one shot at love, my one chance at happiness.

But what if . . .

_Shut up, Maxon, you have enough what ifs to last your entire life, _I told myself. I leaned back into my chair, sighing exhaustedly.

I tried to convince myself that my worries were baseless. The Selection had been going on for decades. If there were something wrong with it, it would have been abolished years ago. So surely, it was effective.

A quiet, familiar knocking interrupted my mental debate. I smiled; I had learned long ago to distinguish the kinds of knocks on my door: a harsh, loud knocking meant my father, while sharp, urgent knocks meant servants. But the one at that moment . . .

"Mom," I greeted her upon opening the door.

She gave me a quick smile. "May I come in?"

"Of course." I motioned for her to come forward, and she strode in gracefully, but quietly. Just like she always was.

I watched as she made her way across the room. She had undergone the Selection herself, and she was happy with Father. He always said that though she grew up as a Four, she was born to be queen—and it seemed true; she had a regal air around her, but nothing near as arrogant as my father's. She was generous and kind, and even possessed some kind of royal beauty.

I swallowed. What were the chances that I would find someone even close to her in the pool of thirty-five Selected? Then again, Father _did _filter the results, and he obviously had more experience than me in choosing who was princess material.

"So the girls are finally here." Her voice pulled me back to reality. I turned; she was sitting on my bed.

"They are." I wondered if that was a good thing. I thought about America Singer and her feeling like the entire palace was a cage. Not that I could blame her.

"Are you excited?" she asked me, unconsciously glancing at the door that lead to the princess' suite.

_She used to sleep there, _I thought. _And at the end of this, someone else—my wife—is going to be there._

"Maxon?" Her voice cut through my thoughts. She was looking at me worriedly.

I cleared my throat, trying to wipe all uncertainty from my face. "Sure."

She gave me one of those it's-no-use-lying smiles. "It's okay to be nervous, dear."

_Dear. _America hated being called dear.

I sighed. "Thanks. I just—what if I don't know what love is?" I blurted out. Then I realized that I was talking to my mother and looked away in embarrassment. Another thing I hated about the Selection—I was being thrown into it with no experience or knowledge. As if dating were supposed to be second nature for me. And to top it all off, most of my attempts at romance were to be shown on national television.

Mom looked surprised at my outburst. "That's what's bothering you?" She had obviously been expecting something else, probably something that seemed more consequential.

"Yes," I admitted, ashamed. "How would I know if I just like her, or if I just think she's pretty? What if I don't even know how to love someone I _do _like properly? What if I mess up everything or what if she doesn't like me back . . . or . . . or . . ." I trailed off. I was wringing my hands, and even I could hear the desperation in my voice. It was rare that I fell apart like this, much less in front of my mother.

She pursed her lips. "Well, I can't really explain it, Maxon. You can't prepare for this kind of thing. You have to learn the hard way—you have to stumble and fall. You'll probably make more mistakes than you can count."

I winced. Mom had always been a comfort. But to be honest, her words were only agitating me even more.

"But more than anything, loving someone is a gamble. It's about gut feels and impulses and taking chances. It's a high risk—you'd be putting your own heart on the line."

"Why would anyone take the risk, then? Why would _I _take it?" I demanded.

Mom smiled softly. "That's exactly how you'll know if you really love someone, Maxon. If, even against all odds, you'd still be more than willing to take the risk for her again and again."

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**How'd you like it? Leave a review for my first published Selection fanfic? :)**

**Oh, and if you have any suggestions for a better title, I'd love to hear them! :D I'm thinking about changing it, but I don't know what to replace it with.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So I recently found out that The Prince has an exclusive ending when you buy it together with The Guard. I wrote this chap before that, so I guess this is kinda non-canon compliant now, but that's why it's called fanfiction, right?**

**And thank you for all the reviews, faves, and follows (I call them RFFs)!**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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She was downright impossible.

_Gut feels_, my mother had told me. All I could feel was throbbing—and it wasn't even in my gut. South of it, to be exact.

I hobbled back to my room, gritting my teeth. So America Singer had a temper that could rival my father's, and a tongue possibly sharper than Daphne's. Not to mention a very strong knee and quick reflexes.

"Your Majesty?" I heard a maid ask in confusion; I probably looked ridiculous. But I just shook my head, wanting to be alone.

I opened the door and headed straight for my bed, immediately collapsing on top of it.

I was hurt. Though my physical injury was rather crippling, the sting of betrayal wasn't something I could just ignore, either.

I thought she wanted to help me, to become my friend. I had shown her nothing but kindness, and she repaid me with a knee to the groin. Because she thought I was _that _kind of guy.

Forget offending—it was absolutely humiliating. What had I ever done to give her that kind of impression? I thought back to our few interactions—I hadn't done anything near seduction. Goodness, I could hardly even flirt with her! So where on Earth had she gotten that idea?

I sighed. Honestly speaking, her behavior was enough reason to send her home. And quite frankly, I had considered it.

But I couldn't.

Her family needed the money. And there was someone back home—someone who had her heart but had carelessly shattered it to pieces—whom she couldn't bear to see. As much as she had hurt me, I couldn't bring myself to do the same to her. I was a gentleman, even if she thought otherwise.

But . . . those weren't the only reasons.

She intrigued me the most out of the other candidates, surprising me at every turn. I just couldn't understand her—she made crying women seem like a children's puzzle. There were times when she was playful and relaxed, and I liked that side of her. But as I learned, she could also be like a volcano waiting to erupt at any moment—and though I'd been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that (more than once, I might add), it just made her seem more real. She wasn't afraid to show her flaws—obviously, she was making no effort to impress me—but unfortunately for the both of us, it was exactly what was drawing me in. She was straightforward yet complicated—guarded and unguarded at the same time.

In much simpler words, I guess I could say that I liked her, in the raw sense of the word; no deeper meanings or italics. And in my book, liking someone and loving someone (or liking someone _that _way or _like _liking someone for that matter) were two very different things.

I liked her and her feistiness and her not wanting to be called _dear_, and I wanted to get to know her better. I knew she told me that she wasn't entertaining any possibility of romantic feelings for me, but I didn't care. I had only scratched the surface, but I could tell that she was someone worth knowing. And maybe, _just maybe, _someone worth loving as well.

I couldn't explain my certainty; I just_ knew._ I was aware that I was acting against rationality (I repeat, a logical person would have sent her home by now), but something in me was so stubbornly determined to win her over, no matter what she did.

The corner of my mouth pulled up in a smile. _Gut feels_, Mom had said.

I leaned back into my pillow, this time thinking back to the earlier, pleasanter part of our stroll. My first "date." Far from perfect, definitely, but what mattered was that I spent it with her.

I thought of the little bits of information she told me about her family. I admit, I was a bit taken aback when she told me that she was the middle child of five, because first of all, I didn't know families grew to be that large. Apparently, it was normal—America said that she wanted lots of children herself. I blushed immediately upon remembering this, thinking that maybe that was something too personal for the current state of our friendship/relationship.

Second of all, I had no idea how it felt to have siblings. Sure, I had my little cousins, but I only saw them on holidays and rare visits. It must be quite something to have someone who had the same parents as you, someone to grow up with, to argue with. Maybe that was part of why I liked being around America—I had missed out on sibling rivalry, and being insulted and questioned by someone other than my father was a pleasant change for me.

Then again, maybe being an only child was a good thing in my case. It would certainly give the entire palace one less person to worry about whenever rebels attacked.

But I couldn't deny the envy I felt whenever America talked about May. Her features seemed to soften, and her tone of voice alone told me that she loved that little girl immensely. I was positive that that strawberry tart-loving sister of hers adored her just as much.

I smiled once more. I had to thank that non-crier someday. She won me a date with America! _And unknowingly robbed her sister of the chance to escape dresses for a week, _I added sheepishly.

I couldn't help but chuckle, feeling a tiny bit guilty. I'm not quite sure what the other girls would have asked for, but I was certain it was not anything close to what America wanted. She requested something daring yet so simple; how could I deny her?

I stood up. Only a ghost of the pain was left, as if it was there just to remind me of its existence. I went over to my desk and looked through the drawers. Finally, I found a small card and sat down to write a message.

I made sure the card was on top of the beautifully wrapped package of pants that was sent to Lady America's room.

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**Yes, I love dashes.**

**What'd you think of this chap? Constructive criticism and comments are always more than welcome! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi again! First of all, I'd like to apologize for the long gap between this and the previous chap. I'm a writer who runs on feels, and I think I drained my Team Maxon feels with the last chapter. I spent some time recharging :) But anyway, this chap's pretty long, so I hope that sort of makes up for the delay. Thank you to everyone who's still reading!**

**Second of all, thank you all so much for the RFFs—especially the reviews, which really warmed my heart. I didn't expect such nice feedback :) A shoutout to SJwrites2014 and Guest Mih—my fellow dash lovers! Still, I think I should tone down my dash usage xD **

**I think I've said enough. Here's the next chap! :D**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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"Midston has been chaotic lately." Setzer, head of the Citizen Safety Committee, jabbed a finger at the map laid out on the table. "I suggest we fund the drafting and training of more soldiers, and then send them there to control the situation." Several heads nodded in response to his idea, including my father's.

"Excuse me, Setzer, but don't you think we're barking up the wrong tree?" Mom asked gently. "Prevention is always the best cure, and it is my humble opinion that we can lessen the number of people who do become criminals by educating them. From my experience as a Four, people do crazy things when they're desperate, as desperation tends to blur the lines between right and wrong. A good education can play a big role in imparting proper values—"

"Your Majesty, since you've become queen, the budget for education has increased by 100%," Setzer said, taking care to keep his tone respectful. Still, I could tell that he hadn't forgotten how the aforementioned increase had been the result of his own committee's funds getting cut. "I repeat, funding the—"

"There was hardly any budget to begin with," she interjected. Her voice remained even; if there was something my mother never did, it was yell. I glanced over at Father, who turned out to be studying the brewing argument in silence. Despite all his arrogance, he was never particularly forward during budget meetings, for some reason.

Meanwhile, Setzer was losing his patience. "Your Highness—"

"Actually, Mother has a point." I interrupted him. I couldn't just sit there and do nothing—I believed in Mom's cause just as much as she did. "Roughly 40% of crimes are committed by Sixes and Sevens, who benefit from the school systems. There's a good chance that allotting money for its improvement would indeed—" I cut myself off after realizing that no one was paying attention to me. Setzer had barely turned at my words, talking to Father instead of hearing me out.

I sighed in frustration. Father always told me to be active in meetings, but having my opinions overlooked all the time was extremely discouraging. I tried to tell myself that I would get more of a say when I became king, but I hated thinking of my plans for the future when I was fully aware that I could change things much earlier—if only they listened.

As if she could read my thoughts, Mom glanced over at me and shot me a quick, knowing smile as small consolation. _I'm sorry, Maxon, _I could just imagine her saying. _It's just the way things are._

"Amberly," Father addressed her. "Setzer's idea gives us a fairly immediate solution, but education is going to take years to be effective. I know you want to give more to the schools, but you must remember that we're already stretched thin because of the rebels and the Selection. If there were some way—"

"Your Majesty," Reagan spoke up. She was the newest adviser, as well as the only other education advocate beside Mom and I. "I believe that Kent has been quite peaceful lately, and seems to have no urgent need for funding. Perhaps we could take from their—"

"Nonsense. We cannot touch the budget of one province without changing another," Lukas, another adviser, argued.

"But why not? Based on their statistics, they can manage perfectly well—"

"Reagan, equality is of utmost importance. We don't want the people to assume that the royal family is playing favorites," Lukas explained. "Think about it. What you're suggesting would be like lessening a Selected Two's compensation in order to increase that of a Selected Five's."

"That _does _sound unfair," another committee head, Amber, murmured. I nodded, thinking of the candidates. Whatever their caste, all their families were missing a daughter, and they deserved the same amount of compensation for that.

Reagan let out a frustrated sigh. "But it's only fair that the province that needs the most—"

"Miss Adams."

Silence fell across the room as soon as my father spoke. I couldn't help but feel a small twinge of envy at how he had commanded total attention with only two words.

"We understand what you're trying to suggest, but in the interest of keeping this nation together, I cannot allow it. We need not give reason for the rebels to increase in number."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reagan's shoulders slump in defeat. I couldn't blame her—I really did see her point. Still, there was truth to my father's and Lukas's words.

"As you wish, my king." The submissiveness rang loud and clear in her voice.

I sighed once more. Budget meetings were _always _like this—Mom wanting more money for education, advisers arguing, Father acting as a mediator, and me getting ignored.

Of course, I detested them. They were extremely tedious, and for all our efforts and statistics and proven points, we never got _anywhere_. To be honest, the only things we got out of these wretched meetings were wasted time and energy.

I crossed my arms, leaning back into my chair. The only thing left to do was to wait until this whole thing was over. As was usual.

At that moment, a maid came in, carrying the tea I had requested for a while back. They usually served coffee at meetings, but I avoided that drink as much as possible—what I needed was something to calm my nerves, not something to keep me awake at night. God knew I was fully capable of that myself.

"Your Majesty," she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. Clearly, only I was meant to hear what she had to say. "A message for you." She smiled, looking pointedly at something on the tray as she set it down in front of me.

"Thank you," I told her. She nodded, then left the room.

Curious, I immediately looked through the tray and found a small, folded piece of paper peeking out from underneath a saucer. Doing my best to remain discreet, I opened the note.

_Your Majesty—_

_Tugging my ear. Whenever._

Hardly three sentences, but they were enough to give me a panic attack. America needed to see me.

"Excuse me," I announced. Everyone looked up at me curiously.

My father's gaze, however, was irritated. I had apparently interrupted some kind of important discussion. "What is it, Maxon?"

I made up some excuse about forgetting an important paper in my study. "It has the latest statistics regarding poverty in Illea, as well as a proposed budget distribution I did myself," I lied, knowing he couldn't say no to that—a chance to point out everything wrong with my work.

The advisers and committee heads nodded, and so did Mom. Father's expression showed only the slightest hint of suspicion—an ordinary person wouldn't have been able to see it—but he gave me permission anyway.

As soon as I was out the door, I moved as fast as I could. What if she was hurt? Or sick? Or if the rebels attacked her family?

_Again with the what ifs, Maxon,_ I told myself. But they weren't for my sake this time. They were for someone else's.

I found her in a hallway, looking at some paintings. I jogged over to her, full of apprehension.

"America?"

She turned, and to my great relief, seemed unharmed. But I wasn't close enough to get a good look.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" I instinctively grabbed her wrists and quickly searched her face for any sign of anxiety or pain.

Instead, surprise and confusion colored her expression. She told me that everything was fine, and I let out a breath. Still, I was skeptical. Why else would she want to see me?

"Just to see you," she told me.

I froze. America . . . just wanted to see me? All worry instantly left me, and I couldn't hold back my grin. It was great enough that at least one of the girls seemed to enjoy my company, but I could hardly believe that it was _America_.

"You just wanted to see me?" I repeated. I probably looked like an idiot, but I just couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

"Don't be so shocked. Friends usually spend time together," she said a matter-of-factly.

Her tone shook me back to reality. She was being a _friend_. Of course she was. She had told me from the very start.

_Impulses indeed_, I thought, remembering Mom's words. It was embarrassing how quickly I had gotten my hopes up and watched them crash down with one nonchalant sentence.

But at least this was some progress, miniscule as it was. She wanted to spend time with me, and that was a miracle in itself already.

It then hit me that I had hardly seen her the entire week. Balancing work and the Selection were even more difficult than I thought—trying to squeeze in getting to know a bunch of girls in between learning how to run a country wasn't exactly an easy feat. As if that weren't enough, I had to do everything perfectly and live up to my father's expectations, which were probably somewhere just above the clouds.

"I didn't mean to neglect our friendship, America," I apologized, but tried to sound as professional as possible. It was a professional friendship that we had, after all.

That, however, didn't mean that I wasn't going to do my best to keep it. But pleasing everyone was just so hard.

Heaven knew I tried, though as my father continually reminded me, it wasn't enough. Aside from deeming most of my proposals (be it something as simple as what color the guards' uniforms should be or as complicated as which troops to send over to which border) ridiculous and inefficient, he criticized me constantly about my slowness in the Selection. Hopefully, I had appeased him a bit when I sent home a girl—Janelle, if I remember right.

I frowned in disgust at the memory of her. America had hinted that the competition was a bit fiercer than I initially imagined, but I could hardly believe that one of the girls would stoop so low as to bad-mouth a fellow contestant in front of me. I may have tolerated it if I hadn't known who she was talking about, but unfortunately for her, I knew America enough to be sure that Janelle was speaking nothing but lies about her.

"You look busy," America's voice cut through my thoughts, and I realized that I had almost forgotten she was right in front of me. "Go back to work, and I'll see you when you're free."

"Actually, do you mind if I stayed a bit?" I asked her. Without waiting for an answer, I led her to a nearby sofa, hoping to get her to agree. Though the mere thought of going back to the meeting and listening to all the futile arguments truly horrified me, it wasn't as if I could pass up an opportunity to spend time with her, either.

To my relief and mystification, she giggled when we sat down. "What's so funny?" I asked.

"Just you. It's cute to see that your job bugs you," she said, smiling. I felt my heart leap at her words. My decision to stall returning to the conference room was turning out better than I expected. "What's so bad about the meetings anyway?"

"Oh, America!" I instantly launched into a rant, spilling out all my complaints and frustrations about them. It was the first time I was ever able to talk about this to anyone besides my mother, and I found it a nice change to actually be listened to, to feel like my opinions mattered.

The conversation soon drifted to education, and I was a bit irked that America wasn't all for giving to the school systems like Mom and I were. I thought that she of all people would understand, being a Five.

But as she explained her view, I realized that she was right. We had never really thought about the Eights, as they were hardly even considered citizens.

"Besides . . ." She paused. "Have you ever been hungry, Maxon?" She asked me what I would do if my parents and I were starving, and the only thing I could do about it was to steal.

I pondered on it quietly. Stealing _was _tempting in that situation. But my education prevailed—taking someone from something was wrong, no matter how you put it. I had basically grown up with laws, and I had attended enough meetings to know that every possible loophole had been—and was being—studied thoroughly and eliminated.

"Close your eyes, Maxon."

"What?" I said, surprised.

"Close your eyes," she repeated, and I followed.

"Somewhere in this palace, there is a woman who will be your wife." I smiled at that. America always gave me hope when it came to the Selection; aside from the fact that she was living proof that I had someone on my side, this was the second time she assured me that I would indeed find someone worth marrying at the end of this competition.

"Maybe you don't know which face it is yet, but think of the girls in that room. Imagine the one who loves you the most. Imagine your 'dear.'"

Inadvertently, a girl's face came to mind, but she didn't fit any of the criteria America had given me. The person I imagined was definitely not my dear. I was pretty certain that she didn't like me as much as I would have wanted, either. And she wasn't even in the room.

She was sitting right next to me.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for her hand, my fingers brushing against hers. She withdrew instantly.

"Sorry," I mumbled in embarrassment, glancing over at her shocked face. I needed to learn how to keep control of myself around her. Not as easy as it sounded, considering that she was exactly what made me lose it.

"Keep 'em closed!" I had to chuckle.

"This girl, imagine that she depends on you. She needs you to cherish her and make her feel like the Selection didn't even happen. Like if you were dropped in the middle of the country to wander around door to door, she's still the one you would have found. She was always the one you would have picked."

My shoulders slumped, and I lost my smile. I could never promise that. She had just mentioned the greatest what if of this entire contest, and it didn't really help with my confidence.

But I let her go on. She told me to imagine that I had no food to give her, and that the girl was so, so desperately hungry . . .

"Stop!" I couldn't take it. I couldn't imagine America gaunt and weak and desperate for even a crumb. I couldn't imagine anyone like that.

I walked across the hall, trying to calm myself. The picture America made me conjure was like a nightmare, but the worst part was knowing that it wasn't. It was happening in my own country. It was happening at that very moment.

I pressed her for more details, and she told me about a boy who was whipped for stealing out of hunger. "Sometimes you do crazy things when you're desperate," she said sadly.

I stiffened. That was pretty much the same thing my mother had said at the meeting. "A boy? How old?"

"Nine," she whispered. I stretched my back, feeling every lash that my father had given me, every scar that remained there. It was bad enough that he had done it to me for merely defying him, acting against how he wanted me to. But it was even worse that the same was being done to someone who was desperate, who was pushed by his own growling stomach. A child, nonetheless.

But if America knew this boy . . . it meant that the whipping had occurred in her hometown. If someone were starving in their town, and America was a Five, then there was a good chance that . . .

"Have you—" I cleared my throat. "—have you ever been like that? Starving?" I braced myself for the answer, dreading it.

She didn't say anything, but she ducked her head—a reluctant yes.

"How bad?"

"Maxon, it will only upset you more."

"Probably," I agreed, nodding. So what if I was upset? It was the least I could do—people were _starving_."But I'm only starting to realize how much I don't know about my own country. Please."

She sighed, but consented. She told me about exchanging electricity for food, and her sweet, innocent little sister not understanding why they couldn't exchange gifts one Christmas.

I paled. Nothing could have prepared me for that.

Yet America was a Five. How much worse was it for the Sixes? The Sevens? The Eights?

My thoughts were probably written all over my face, because she tried to cheer me up by telling me how helpful the checks had been, how much I'd done for them . . .

But I now knew that I had a great debt to these hungry people. And I planned to do everything in my power to repay every single cent of it.

I went over and kissed her forehead. "I'll see you at dinner," I told her before walking away.

It was only after a few steps when I realized exactly what I had done—shown her an open gesture of affection. But I pushed it out of my mind. There were more pressing problems to deal with at the moment.

I straightened my tie. People were starving in my country, and it was my duty as prince to do something about it.

_Think,_ I ordered myself. Maybe we could deliver food to the Fives, Sixes, Sevens, and Eights? But that would require food deliverers, cooks, transportation—I shook my head; my project needed to be both effective _and _efficient.

Maybe the lower castes could gather somewhere, and then local officials could distribute the food. Yes, that would work. Each Province Services Office _did _have a rather large hall . . .

I smiled. With the venue already covered, it wouldn't cost much—

I stopped. How in the world was I going to fund this?

I leaned against the wall, running a hand through my hair. Any proposal I had would be worthless if we couldn't fund it. I _had _to think of some way.

_". . . but you must remember that we're already stretched thin because of the rebels and the Selection."_

The Selection. That was it!

The Selection was _my _contest. Technically, I was in charge of it, not my father. I was sure to be listened to, and I could make new rules if I wanted, provided that they were fair.

Now, if I could just find some way to lessen its budget in favor of my project. Maybe I could decree that the Selected wear cost-efficient pants instead of expensive gowns? _No, they can't all be Americas, _I thought wryly.

The only other thing I could think of was the compensation, and it wasn't something I could manipulate either.

"_Equality is of utmost importance . . ._ _What you're suggesting would be like lessening a Selected Two's compensation in order to increase that of a Selected Five's."_

_"That _does _sound unfair."_

_No, _I thought. _What's unfair is the lower castes trying so hard to feed themselves while the upper castes bathe in luxury. _Equality, I realized, was giving everyone the same amount. Fairness was giving everyone what they _needed._

Twos and Threes had no need for extra money, while others would treat theirs like a lifeline. If I were to take away the compensation for the upper castes then I would have . . .

My eyes widened after I had estimated the amount. It was much more than I expected.

A new sense of determination filled me. I walked with confidence to the conference room, not in the least worried that I was going back without an important paper.

I had more important things to say.

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**I guess I failed in minimizing my dashes :))**

**I based the fairness vs equality thing from something I saw on 9gag (I can't remember when). And Setzer was named after a Final Fantasy character (for some reason, it was the first name I thought of.)**

**How was it? I spent a good amount of time writing about the meeting, trying to make it as canon-compliant as possible. But in the end, I was like, it's fanfiction. Straying a bit from canon isn't a crime.**

**I know it was a little low on fluff, but I'll try to make up for it next chap :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Once again, thank you for all the RFFs! They never fail to put a smile on my face :)**

**Sorry for the super long delay. Summer Kataang Week 2014 came up, which means I had to write seven stories for seven different prompts. That being said, I haven't been able to work on this fic for a while.**

**But anyway, thank you all for waiting. I hope you enjoy this chap! :D**

**I don't own the Selection series.**

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"So, Marlee, how do you like the palace so far?" Gavril asked.

"Oh, it's absolutely amazing!" Marlee exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "I love everything about it—especially the movie theater! I'm a huge movie fan, so I guess that makes sense," she said, giggling. I cringed. I knew America was rooting for her, but I just couldn't bring myself to think of her as someone I could like romantically, much less someone I could marry. Yes, she was sweet, but sugary seemed to be the better term, as I found myself irritated by her constant gushing about everything. I didn't hold it against her, though; it was neither of our faults that overly nice wasn't my type. I apparently had a preference for quite the opposite, I noted wryly.

"Ah, I assume the prince brought you there on a date?" Gavril continued.

"Yes! It was very romantic," she said dreamily, and I felt a twinge of guilt. How could I raise her hopes like that? But then again, how could I send her home? She was a crowd favorite, and whoever I married was not only going to be my wife, but Illea's princess as well.

Gavril smiled, and I was suddenly thankful that I had been able to take everyone on a date at least once. It would have been embarrassing if one of the contestants had said that they hadn't been asked out yet.

"I'm sure it was. And speaking of romantic, Marlee, I'm going to ask the question that's on all of our minds right now. Have you two kissed yet?"

Marlee's eyes grew wide, and she blushed fiercely. I wasn't any better—I knew I was red to my ears. It had never occurred to me that Gavril would ask them anything like that. "Oh . . . no. No, we um, haven't . . ." she stammered.

Thankfully, Gavril backtracked. "It's all right, Marlee. I'm sure Prince Maxon just wants to take things slowly." He glanced up at me, and I nodded, plastering a smile on my face for show.

"I'm sorry for causing any discomfort," he apologized, and Marlee gave him a weak smile. "Well, that's Marlee Thames, everyone! Next up is the enchanting—" He checked his cards. "—Natalie Luca!"

Much to my horror, though, Gavril was just getting warmed up. He tried asking a few more girls the same question, and they all responded with a flush and a shake of their head.

"Haven't you kissed any of them yet?" he asked me, looking shocked.

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably, but quickly arranged my features into something relaxed. It was a skill I had perfected after all my years on television. "They've only been here two weeks!" I called out, hoping my tone sounded as lighthearted as my words. "What kind of man do you think I am?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw America looking at me curiously. It only made it more difficult to hide my blushing face.

Thankfully, Gavril decided not to press the topic any further after that, and instead focused mainly on what the girls thought of me, the palace, our dates, and their chances of winning. The interviews went by like a blur—I was only really waiting for one person.

"Next up, we have the lovely America Singer!" he finally announced into the microphone.

I looked up at her name, searching for the familiar flash of red hair among the Selected. I found her after a few seconds, and I watched as she stood up, looking only at the ground as she made her way to the stage. I frowned; obviously, she wasn't one for public speaking, but if I didn't know her, I'd say she were shy and quiet, probably even boring.

And then she stepped into the light.

She was dressed in a stunning gown the same color as her hair, giving her the illusion that she was covered in flames. It was a sharp contrast to the blue I was accustomed to seeing her in, which for some reason all the other girls seemed to be wearing that night. The bottom fanned of her dress out beautifully, while the rest of the dress elegantly accentuated her form. As usual, she donned next to no jewelry, but it was obvious that she didn't have to. Every step she took made her shimmer enough to be eye-catching but not blinding.

America had always stood out in my eyes, but in that moment, she was riveting, radiant.

She was perfect.

More striking than ever, her icy blue eyes darted up to me. I pulled myself together to give her a wink, and she visibly relaxed, settling into her chair. She was going to nail this, I just knew it.

"America Singer," Gavril started. "That's an interesting name you have there. Is there a story behind it?"

I saw America give a tiny sigh of relief. She explained that she was quite the fighter even in her mother's womb, and her parents decided to name her after the country that fought hard to keep the land together. "It's odd, but to her credit, she was right—we've been fighting ever since," she said, giving a small shrug.

Gavril and I laughed, and so did a good number of people from the audience. When had America Singer become a comedian? "She sounds like a feisty woman herself," he remarked.

"She is," America confirmed. "I get a lot of my stubbornness from her." I made a mental note to watch out for her mother.

"So you're stubborn, then? Have a bit of a temper?" Gavril asked.

I covered my mouth with my hands—I was almost doubling over in laughter at what seemed to me the understatement of the century. I had to resist the temptation to yell, "You don't know the half of it!"

The interview went on, and I watched with great amusement and admiration. Some girls tried to present themselves in a certain way while others either got overenthusiastic or nervous. A handful were poised, but otherwise unremarkable. And here came America, casually answering Gavril's questions, effortlessly winning everyone over with her inherent wit and spontaneity.

Of course, it wasn't long before Gavril pushed America into admitting that she was the mystery girl who had yelled at me. This time, I couldn't stop myself. "Get her to tell the whole story!" I yelled.

That, of course, got his attention. America tried to shoot a glare at me, but she was having trouble being serious herself.

She gave a quick summary of that night's events, and pretty soon, everyone in the studio was laughing—even my parents. I glanced at them, smiling. My parents seemed to like her so far. A good sign.

Gavril asked her what we did together, and what she loved about the palace (apparently, it was a toss between the garden and the food). But what surprised me was her indignant no when Gavril asked her if her caste would in any way affect her chances of becoming the princess.

My heart jumped as soon as the word had left her mouth. So she had actually thought about winning the Selection. She considered herself in the running.

Maybe she actually did like me. Just a bit.

"Oh, my! You do have a spirit there!" Gavril exclaimed. I chuckled. She had much more than a spirit; in fact, she herself was a force. _A walking rebellion, _I remembered describing her on her first morning. "So you think you'll beat out all the others, then? Make it to the end?"

"No, no," she said quickly, her eyes wide. "It's not like that. I don't think I'm better than the other girls; they're all amazing." I let out a short laugh at the hint of insecurity in her voice. "It's just . . . I don't think Maxon would do that, just discount someone because of their caste."

And though her words sort of turned down my theory that she actually did have some sort of feelings towards me (as little as they may be), I smiled; what she said was true. Granted, I was grateful that America assured the audience that I was looking at people and not numbers, but more than that, I was happy to know that in the short time she's been here, she actually did get to become my friend. She knew me—the real me—enough to say that.

To my surprise, though, a collective gasp echoed around the room. I was about to take offense (really, did everyone think I was _that _shallow?) but I repeated her words in my mind.

_It's just . . . I don't think Maxon would do that . . ._

_Maxon_. She had called me Maxon, in front of the entire nation.

She seemed to realize this at the same time I did, because she looked up at me, panicked. But all I had was a grin on my face.

Only then had it sunk in that she was comfortable with me enough to address me by my own first name. The other girls called me "Your Majesty" or "Prince Maxon". And it was nice, actually. To hear my own name being spoken by someone other than my parents, free of titles and honor. Just plain me.

She really did know me, the person behind the crown. And yet she still stuck around.

She blushed, and I realized how lovely she was when she did. She didn't flush much in front of me—apparently, I was the only one who was slowly turning into a bundle of nerves the more time we spent together.

"Ah, so it seems you really have gotten to know the prince," Gavril said. "Tell me, what do you think of _Maxon_?"

I looked at her, dying of curiosity. Though she kept her feelings close to the surface, I could never really read her when it came to questions I wanted the answer to the most.

What exactly did she think of me? She told me the answer when she got here—she thought I was stuck-up and shallow. Could her opinion of me really change that quickly?

She was silent for a few moments, trying to decide on an answer. I was already half-expecting her to repeat her speech that night in the garden when she glanced up at me, and something in her expression shifted. It became more . . . serious. More thoughtful.

"Maxon Schreave is the epitome of all things good," she said, and no one could doubt the sincerity in her voice. "He is going to be a phenomenal king. He lets girls who are supposed to be wearing dresses wear jeans and doesn't get mad when someone who doesn't know him clearly mislabels him." I lost awareness of everyone and everything around me; I was hanging onto her every word. Did she really mean all that?

She went on. "Whoever he marries will be a lucky girl. And whatever happens to me, I will be honored to be his subject."

I swallowed, speechless. I was touched, moved. No, I was absolutely humbled. It might have been all for show, but if I knew America, she wasn't one to flatter. (I scoffed, remembering her first night at the palace.) And she had always seemed remarkably candid.

I had been called handsome and nice countless times over. I had even been described as quietly powerful (I wasn't quite sure what to make of that). But never had I received such a compliment. And from America Singer, nonetheless.

Gavril wrapped up her interview and called someone else, but my eyes were locked on her. She was staring at the ground, and she seemed distracted. I couldn't tell what that meant—she was unreadable, as always.

Utterly unpredictable. But still, I chose to take a chance.

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**Not sure when next chap will be. Kataang Week revived my Avatar feels, and I'm going to focus on writing fics that are about that fandom.**

**But thanks for reading! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Wow, it's been a really long time. I'm not really that into the fandom anymore, but this chapter was sitting in my laptop and I thought it'd be a shame to just leave it there. But anyway, this is [probably] the last chap (or not, irdk). Since we're getting more Selection books (I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE MAXERICA AS PARENTS), who knows? My Maxerica feels might go through the roof and I'll write another chap.**

**Oh, and this chapter actually fits really well with the song "Possibilities" by Freddie Stroma, who'd make a PERFECT Maxon, btw. (Come on, someone agree with me haha) I encourage you guys to listen to the song, or even just check out the lyrics. I'm telling you, it just screams Maxerica xD**

**And guys. Those sweet reviews! Thank you SO MUCH! Seriously, they made me really really happy. I'm also freaking out that you guys actually like my writing, so I hope you'll like this chap as well! This one's all Maxerica :)**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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There was no other way to find out her intentions during the interview than to ask her. I chewed nervously on the inside of my cheek (something that drove Silvia crazy when she was trying to teach me proper etiquette) for a few seconds, trying to pull myself together. Then delicately, I let the question slip out.

"So . . ." _Pull yourself together, Maxon. _". . . about what you said . . ."

"Which part? The part about me calling you names or fighting with my mom or saying food was my motivation?" she said, rolling her eyes.

I let out a short, breathy laugh. For someone who'd had a boyfriend before, she was pretty dense. Her tone only reinforced my theory that I was the only one unstable whenever we talked. "The part about me being good . . ." I trailed off awkwardly.

"Oh." She sounded surprised. "What about it?" She ducked her head and started tugging on her dress. Once again, she was frustratingly unreadable.

Or maybe it was just me and my lack of experience at understanding women. I wondered if her ex-boyfriend was able to read her like an open book.

A flare of anger rushed within me as I remembered that_ dog, _but I reminded myself of the current issue at hand.

"I appreciate you making it look authentic, but you didn't need to go that far," I told her as nonchalantly as possible. She needn't know how desperately I wanted her to have meant what she said.

Her head snapped up and she gave me a slightly disbelieving expression. Now what was _that _supposed to mean?

"Maxon, that wasn't for the sake of the show." My heart skipped a beat and I could feel myself hoping. "If you had asked me a month ago what my honest opinion of you was, it would have been very different. But now I know you, and I know the truth, and you were everything I said you were. And more," she added.

America had this habit of striking me speechless. And she was doing it again.

_And more. _Those two words echoed over and over in my mind. Was that . . . did that mean . . . she liked me? I knew I had risen up to a respectable position in her eyes (and from what lowly bottom, I didn't even want to know) but was it possible that she thought highly enough of me to actually have feelings for me?

I considered asking her exactly what she meant, but like the coward I was, I backed out. Instead, I gave her a small smile. "Thank you." I tried to put all my emotion into that one sentence so she would know how much her words meant to me.

"Anytime."

Her tone sounded so friendly, so casual, and with that, my hopes crashed down once again. I held back a sigh—this girl was driving me out of my mind. Yet I was still drawn to her—a mystery I couldn't solve. I wondered if she knew the feeling.

In the quiet that followed, I realized that she probably did. I remembered the _dog_, and how, even with his crimes, I envied him. She had loved him, and probably still did. Against all logic, he still owned her heart even if he had let her go—something I couldn't fathom the reason for.

I jumped off the rail and walked over to her. "He'll be lucky, too," I remarked offhandedly. Or at least I hoped it sounded that way.

She looked at me in confusion.

"Your boyfriend. When he comes to his senses and begs you to take him back." Keep it casual, Maxon.

She laughed, reminding me that they weren't together anymore. But I could hear the longing in her voice, how much she wished my words were true.

I deflated, but tried to keep up my cool demeanor. I told her what she wanted to hear, and it was almost worth it to see her eyes light up with hope even for a short while. "Though, in my opinion, you're still too much good for that dog." I could only help myself so much.

She gave me an amused, grateful smile. God, she was beautiful.

I caught myself staring, and quickly looked away. Forget a bundle of nerves—I was a complete wreck.

"Speaking of which," I said, before she could notice my weird behavior. I mentally cursed myself—apparently, I didn't squeak when I was nervous; I yelled. "If you don't want me to be in love with you, you're going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I'm having your maids sew some potato sacks for you." As if that would help. I was willing to bet her a lifetime supply of pants that she would look stunning even in that.

She hit my arm lightly. "Shut up, Maxon." I could hear the smile in her voice.

I continued teasing her, telling her she was too beautiful for her own good with mock pity. Still, I didn't know if she could see through it, that my joking tone was but a mask to hide exactly how much I meant and wanted to say those words.

"I can't help it." She sighed. "One can never help being born into perfection." She fanned her face playfully.

I felt my heart skip a beat. That smile of mock arrogance, the glint in her eyes—she really was just so _damn _perfect. "No, I don't suppose you can." My voice had lost all its teasing. But she giggled, obviously not noticing it.

Joking or not, she was right. She couldn't help it if the moonlight made her face glow or if her hair looked like fire. She didn't ask for icy blue eyes that made my heart pound, or beauty that no amount of make-up or jewelry could equal. She didn't even want to be here; it wasn't her decision that led her to where she was: standing right in front of me.

But most of all, it wasn't her fault that she captivated me, that her feistiness and bluntness drew me in. I couldn't blame her for the fact that all I wanted to do was kiss her right there and then.

I leaned in close, her face inches from mine. She turned, a smile still on her face.

She stopped when she realized how close we were. Her eyes widened, and I decided to take a chance, take the risk. There was no turning back now.

I closed the distance between us and kissed her.

Or at least I think I did. I pressed my mouth to hers for a few seconds, and then she pulled away, taking a step back.

I did the same, heat rushing into my cheeks. "Sorry," I mumbled, averting my eyes.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, obviously shocked.

"Sorry," I repeated, feeling stupid. What had I done? Being friends with her was better than any awkwardness I had just created.

_Maxon Schreave, you're an idiot. _Daphne's voice rang loud and clear in my mind, but she was right.

"Why did you do that?" She didn't sound mad. I stole a quick glance at her. She was holding a hand to her mouth.

I returned to staring at the view on her balcony. It was easier to talk that way, without her eyes searching me for answers.

Looking at the Angeles lights, I stammered out some hardly intelligible explanation about thinking her feelings had changed after everything that had happened. "And I like you, I thought you could tell," I admitted.

At that moment, I realized exactly how it was to gamble, to put your heart out on the line. It made you feel extremely vulnerable—I had put myself completely at her mercy. I had taken the risk, and I had to face the consequences of my decision.

I turned. "And . . ." One look at her face cut me off.

I didn't know what I was expecting. Maybe a shocked face to match her voice, or if I was pushing my luck, maybe even a look of wonder. But definitely not something like what was in front of me—an expression that seemed like appalled confusion.

So many emotions ran through me at once, but the strongest was mortification. She didn't like the kiss one bit, and it seemed that it wasn't from the mere fact that it was from me.

"Oh, was it terrible?" I spoke the next sentence quickly, not wanting to hear her answer. "You don't seem happy at all."

Surely, she had kissed her ex-boyfriend. She had experience; she knew how a real kiss felt like. I was clueless, stumbling through the dark, winging everything, and she obviously knew that.

I watched as she tried to rearrange her features into something else, which only embarrassed me further.

I apologized, feeling like I had only succeeded in pulling down whatever respect she still had for me. There was no more point in trying to redeem myself, so I came clean and admitted that I had no idea what I was doing and that at age nineteen, she had been my very first kiss.

"I'm just . . . I'm sorry, America." I sighed, running a hand through my hair a couple of times and leaning against the railing for support. I was pretty sure I was redefining pathetic at that very moment.

My first kiss. A complete disaster.

Crushing disappointment washed over me. I had raised my hopes too high; I had bet all I had and lost everything.

But somehow I knew it was more than that. This feeling didn't sink in and frustrate me. It throbbed; it made my chest feel hollow. It was numbing, but for some reason that only made it worse.

Then I realized exactly what it was. This was what heartbreak felt like.

It was stronger than I expected. I had read about it in countless novels, but no author ever quite captured the feeling. And now I finally knew why—such a thing was impossible. There was no word for the emptiness that made you feel like you had just lost a part of yourself.

So this was how it would all end. Looking back, though, I was doomed from the start. She had warned me, and I didn't listen. I had clung on to that silly conception of her ever liking me, of me ever having a chance with her, and I got what I deserved.

I was trying to figure out an excuse to leave without risking further humiliation when I felt something rubbing my forehead.

"What are you doing?" I looked up.

She didn't seem confused anymore. On the contrary, she smiled, saying that she was erasing a memory. "I think we can do better."

A newfound warmth quickly spread throughout me, replacing everything else. How gullible I was, how foolish of me to get my hopes up once again. But I didn't care.

I tried to tell her that changing history was impossible, but she didn't want to hear it. "Besides, who'd ever know about it but you and me?"

There she was again, with that beaming face I could never let down. She was willing to try again, to give to give me a second chance—to give _us_ a second chance.

A second chance at a first kiss. It was more than I could ever hope for.

And this time, she _wanted _me to kiss her.

With that knowledge, confidence crept into me, and I didn't worry if I was going to mess up, because I was pretty sure I couldn't.

"One can never help being born into perfection," she whispered, her sweet breath blowing into my face.

Instinctively, I wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her close. I touched my fingers gently to her smooth cheek, tracing down the bridge of her nose.

"No, I don't suppose you can," I murmured. My heart was pounding, and with our proximity, I could hear that hers was, too.

I became nervous again, and I was hesitant, but I wasn't clueless like last time. I leaned in and gave her the faintest whisper of a kiss.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

I pulled away a few seconds later. "Was that any better?"

She seemed stunned, but managed a small nod. I was grinning from ear to ear, and if I hadn't been in front of America, I would possibly have whooped in excitement—it was taking all my self-control not to let the adrenaline pumping through me take over.

Looking back at her, however, I noticed that she had remained quiet. I saw that she had some kind of panicked, torn expression on her face, as if she were unsure of something. This time, though, it didn't take me long to read her—and I felt a pang when I realized exactly what brought about that look on her face.

I won't lie—it pained me to know that even now, she still wanted him. But I had to be considerate—she'd had her heart broken by someone she truly loved, and she initially didn't _think_ about even considering having feelings me. She was going to need time, and she was probably going to be harder to win over than the other candidates. But simply being around her made me happy, and to put it frankly, I was completely smitten by her. She was the only one who had this unexplainable effect on me, the only one I would consider falling in love with as of the moment. Maybe it was too early to tell, but I had willingly gambled my feelings for her—and according to Mom, that was the indication of truly loving someone.

However, none of this mattered if she didn't feel the same. But I wasn't going to rush her into jumping to a decision—I was willing to pursue her, to try and win her over completely, but I needed to know that I actually had a chance. I needed to know that she wasn't leading me on for nothing, and while I had a feeling that there was something between us (exactly what, I wasn't sure), I had to know that she was willing to consider the possibility of being with me, having a life with me as the princess of Illea, and one day even the queen. I had to be sure that she was willing to consider the possibility of _us._

"May I say something?" I said, and she locked her blue eyes with mine, nodding.

I took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm not so stupid as to believe that you've completely forgotten about your former boyfriend. I know what you've gone through and that you're not exactly here under normal circumstances. I know you think there are others here more suited for me and this life, and I wouldn't want you to rush into trying to be happy with any of this. I just . . ." My voice started to shake, and I realized exactly how much I wanted her to say yes. I gulped and continued. "I just want to know if it's possible . . ."

She was quiet for what seemed like ages, thoroughly thinking my question through. I could see from the faraway look in her eyes that she was imagining all I had laid out for her to consider, and I held my breath, anxious for her answer.

Finally, she turned her striking blue gaze back to me, and I felt my heart stop. "Yes, Maxon," she whispered, and it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. "It's possible."

And that was all I needed to hear.

As usual, I was up late that night, but it wasn't out of fear or dread this time. My mind was consumed with something very different.

Her intoxicating breath, the glow of her skin under the moonlight, the sharp contrast of her sapphire eyes and flame-like hair against the dark of the night—they were all spinning in my head. And that second time our lips touched—it was just so painfully beautiful. Maybe it was the so-called magic of a "first kiss" that made it seem like that, but I was sure that it was more than that. What made it so special was that I got to have it with _her, _same as my first date. I wasn't quite sure how to describe it—it felt like everything had become right in the world, like everything had fallen into place. And yet at the same time, it was like there was no world—just America and I.

So this is what it was like when you fell.

I sighed in frustration, looking over at my camera, which was sitting on top of my table. When words failed, I could always count on pictures to capture what I felt, and yet I couldn't imagine any photograph that could compare to those few seconds of my lips brushing against hers.

_Yes, Maxon. It's possible._

I held on to those words like a lifeline, and in a way, that was actually the case. I was willing to hedge all my bets on America, on only the mere possibility of winning her over. It was rash, it was irrational, and it was probably stupid, but she really was the only girl out of all the candidates that I could even think about spending the rest of my life with. If only she were surer of her feelings, it was actually quite possible for the Selection to be over much earlier than normal.

I smiled to myself. It was my Selection, and yet I was the one hoping she would pick me. But well, nothing was ever conventional with America. Like she said, true love was often the most inconvenient kind, and if I really was falling in love with her, then any inconvenience would be worth it if I had her at the end of it.

I leaned back into my pillow, feeling relaxed and actually happy for the first time in quite a while. And for once, I was able to sleep soundly, my dreams filled with all the possibilities of a life with America.

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**Soo what did you guys think? I hope I wrote this okay. I referred to Maxon's letters in The One to describe how he felt about the kiss :)**

**And I don't want to get your hopes up, but I actually have [very] rough drafts for maybe one or two more chapters. So I might post them sometime (can't say when).**

**Also, just so I know, would any of you guys want me to keep posting chapters of this? Like would anyone still be interested?**

**But anyway, thanks for all the support, and thank you so much for reading my little fanfic! :D**


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